Ferry to Cooperation Island

by Carol Newman Cronin

  James nodded. “Great idea—”

  “Great idea my ass!” Courtney shook her head. “Running that whole way with only one working engine is—”

  “Pretty much what you’ve been doing all summer, Courtney,” Mack said. “Compression on that port motor’s half what it should be. Starboard one dies in open water, you’ll be stuck.”

  “I looked up the price of a new block,” James said. “Over four thousand bucks!”

  “We can get’ ’em used,” Courtney said. “My uncle—”

  “But the offer we make Lloyd should be reduced by the new value.” Mack was nodding. “Plus loss of income with the ferry out of action. . .” his voice trailed off. “I’m not a numbers guy, James, but if you think it’ll go for four hundred, start at three. You can always go—”

  “But I can’t make the offer,” James said. “Lloyd’s already heard about the land trust.”

  At last, his words caught up with her heart. James was staying— and buying the ferry was the secret he’d been keeping! “We’ll need operating capital to make it through the winter,” she said, mind racing. “She needs a paint job. And a mechanic—”

  “Don’t forget relief captain.” His smile was as wide as the harbor.

  “You could’ve told me sooner,” she said.

  “Not until it was all worked out.”

  “So, you’ve gotta have every little pissant detail figured out, before you even share the idea? That’s not how, how. . .” how a partnership should work, she wanted to say.

  Mack pulled his phone out of his shirt pocket.

  “I wanted to tell you the night we moved the mattress, but. . .” James was blushing.

  Courtney swallowed hard. “Let me go to Wainwright,” she said, heart starting to pound. Last time she’d set foot in that cramped little office, she’d almost puked with claustrophobia.

  This time would be different, though. No more desperate with a capital D; instead, she’d be offering her boss a buyout with a capital B.

  James was shaking his head. “That won’t work!”

  “Why not? I’ll get a better deal than you would.” She pressed fingertips into oyster shell, feeling her heart beating behind it.

  “That might be true, but—”

  “Courtney gets my vote,” Mack said, putting his phone away. “Lloyd won’t associate her with Joe’s estate—or with the Malloys. Even if he should.” He raised one eyebrow at James, then at Courtney. She blushed; James was too busy pointing his left forefinger at Courtney to even notice.

  “All right, but no going rogue on us,” he said. “Start at three hundred, and don’t go one penny higher than four. Deal?”

  “Whatever you say, bossypants.” Courtney pushed back her chair. “Mack, do you have time to look at that port engine? Who knows, maybe the rogue lady captain forgot to adjust the choke or something. . .”

  Lloyd

  FRIDAY MORNING’S LOUD knock on his office door was a surprise. Surely the bank would wait until after the holiday weekend to repossess the furniture? The banker knew exactly how much Lloyd’s wife was worth, and Lloyd hadn’t signed the divorce decree yet. . .

  Those papers were somewhere on this desk, buried under overdue bills. Even though the girl captain’s salary was half of James Goddamn Malloy’s, this month’s earnings had just barely covered expenses. If only she’d managed to sink the—

  Another knock. Brushing back what was left of his hair, Lloyd sat up straight and called out, “It’s open.” Dredged up a welcoming smile—

  But it was just Courtney, already shrugging off a company jacket that was much too big for her. The last time she was in this office, he’d told her: you’ll have to make do with men’s sizes—that’s all we have.

  She’d come to ask for a raise, no doubt. Hah! If she had two brain cells to rub together, she’d figure out that bounced paychecks meant he couldn’t afford to pay her one penny more. But what the hell, he’d listen to her whining about the boyfriend moving in, or her cat’s vet bill. Anything to distract him from this dizzying maze of debt.

  She pulled a plastic chair over in front of his desk and sat down, uninvited, balling up the jacket on her lap.

  “What brings you all the way up here?” He crossed his arms, frowning. “I’ve got a business to—”

  “Port engine shit the bed on the way into the harbor,” she said. If his daughter ever talked like that. . .

  “And we’re booked solid the rest of the day,” she added. Of course they were, it was the Friday of Labor Day weekend. Like he cared.

  “You’ll make it back on one engine,” he told her. “Ask that harbormaster to fix it again—what’s his name, Matt? Mark? He’s a lot more reasonable than—”

  “I want to buy the Brenton Ferry Company,” she blurted out, rubbing at a strange lump between her breasts. Otherwise they were quite attractive. . .

  Wait.

  “What’d you just say?” He leaned forward in his chair.

  “I want to buy the ferry,” she repeated. “I’ve recently come into some money, and I like it here. I’ve decided to stay.”

  He glanced out the window, eyeing the Homer. Was this some sort of trick?

  Didn’t matter, if he could get her to pay cash.

  “It’s not even for sale,” he replied, picking up a pen with a much-chewed cap to twirl it against his knuckles. “What makes you think I’d even be interested?”

  Courtney’s shrug raised those cheesy captain’s bars. “My uncle’s a mechanic, so he’d help me replace that busted engine. Big expense like that, I figure you might start thinking about offloading the whole—”

  “We don’t need to replace anything. Harbormaster’ll—what’s his name again?”

  Courtney shook her head so hard she dislodged the hair from behind her left ear. “Even Mack says it’s done for, and he can fix anything.”

  He looked out the window again. Why would anyone want to buy an old rusty boat? Had to be a trick. “So. . . your uncle’s a mechanic. He interested in a job?”

  “That’s not the right question.”

  “No?” He swiveled back to face her, trying not to smile; this was more fun than he’d expected. “What is?”

  “How much am I willing to pay for the business? That’s the right—”

  “Where’re you from again?” He snapped his fingers. “Annapolis, I remember now. So why don’t you go back down there to Mary-land and buy yourself a little business? Don’t you have some nice lobster-man waiting for you?”

  “It would be a waterman,” Courtney replied, her voice frosty now. “And I already told you, I like it up here.”

  “Winters are long and dark. Gets lonely.” Who was the cat now, in this game of cat and mouse?

  She gripped her thighs, but didn’t look away from his gaze—or respond.

  “All right, how much are you willing to pay?” he asked, finally. “You’ve obviously given this way more thought than—”

  “Two forty.”

  “Two hundred and forty thousand?” Lloyd snorted. “That’s an insult! Do you know what I’ve put into it over the years?”

  “We both know you haven’t put one goddamn red cent into maintenance. I’ll have to buy a new engine—maybe two.”

  Lloyd looked down at the August loan payment slip, which was not yet past due—unlike July and June. “Have you talked to a bank yet?” he asked her. “Business loans aren’t exactly growing on trees these—”

  “Cash deal.” She kept her gaze steady.

  “Really! Do all captains run drugs on the side then? I thought it was just Malloy.”

  Courtney pressed at that growth between her breasts again. Cancer, maybe? Months to live, figured she’d buy herself a little ferry company while she was still around to enjoy it?

  Enjoy it—yeah, right. She could have it.

  But not for two forty. After loan payments and legal fees, he’d barely end up with anything for himself.

  “Look, I admire your ambition,”
Lloyd told her. “But the Brenton Ferry Company was started by my great-grandfather; I can’t just sell it. And you’ve got a run that leaves in forty minutes, so it’s time to get back to work.” He looked down at his papers, hoping she wouldn’t take him at his word. Selling the ferry would solve everything! Why hadn’t he thought of that?

  Courtney was shaking her head. “It’s not safe to run the Homer on one engine.” She leaned forward. “So if you’re not interested in selling, I guess I need to give you my—”

  “Wait—maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement.” He pulled at his polo shirt collar, feeling the pulse in his neck against his knuckles.

  Courtney leaned back in the chair again; she’d been bluffing too.

  “Your price is too low,” he said. “I’ve built up a lot of goodwill over the years—”

  “Washed away in a heartbeat, if today’s sold-out runs don’t leave the dock.”

  “Your contract isn’t up yet!”

  “Actually, the only agreement I signed was for a two-week trial,” she replied. “On a ferry with two working—”

  “Walk out now, I’ll sue for—”

  “All those lawyer’s fees?” Courtney shook her head. “You can’t afford it. Especially when you’re undoubtedly planning to lay me off for the winter.”

  He turned to look out the window again, fuming. She’d read him too easily.

  She lifted one shoulder. “So if my price is too low, what would seem reasonable to you?”

  He glanced down at his desk, then out the window again, wishing he’d had a chance to run some numbers—but he knew what he owed, so he doubled it.

  “Four-fifty.”

  “Shee-it! That’s more than the business would be worth with two brand-new 4-53s.”

  “Four-fifty-whats?”

  “Detroit diesels,” she replied, which didn’t help at all until she added, “That’s what the Homer has for engines. With a little regular maintenance, they’ll run forever. Since you were too cheap for that, they’ll both need to be replaced.”

  “Starboard one’s still running,” he said. James Goddamn Malloy had always been after him for maintenance money too—these two had more in common than he’d first thought.

  If she bought the ferry, would she hire James to run it? The thought of the proud Malloy working for a female boss made him smile— which, he could tell, confused Courtney.

  “How much is a new engine?” he asked, doodling a series of dollar signs on his blotter.

  “Nine thousand, one hundred and fifty dollars.” Her gaze was steady. “Each.”

  “Christ!” It slipped out before he could stop himself. More than double what he’d expected, and she’d caught him off-guard with her accuracy.

  She nodded. “It’s gonna cost one of us a lot of money to get the old girl going again.”

  “There’s more to the business than just that stupid boat.”

  “Ah, my lovely cottage. I had to patch the screen door last week to keep the gallery cat from moving in. Fire chief says it needs a new roof. And the fridge is on its last legs.”

  Lloyd doodled more dollar signs on the payment stub, willing her to make another offer. When he heard her feet collect under the chair, as if she was about to stand up, he added a four to his scribbles. “Four hundred grand,” he told her.

  “Two seventy-five,” she replied. “And I’ll keep running the ferry on one engine until the paperwork’s complete, so there’s no lapse in service.”

  “Deal.” He stood up and reached across the desk, adding, “My handshake is my word,” like he always did. As soon as she walked out, he’d run the numbers on his own and come up with something better.

  “Then you won’t mind signing this?” Courtney reached into her shirt pocket and unfolded a single sheet of paper. “Let me just write in the price we agreed to. . .” She filled in the blank spots, signed above the line marked “Buyer,” and slid it across his desk.

  “You’re quite prepared,” he said, picking up the well-chewed pen. He paused, ballpoint poised over the “seller’s” line. “I expect ten percent before I ask my attorney to draw up the paperwork.”

  “I’ll have that for you this afternoon. And I’ve already contacted my attorney, so she can draw up the paperwork.”

  He scrawled a signature, then folded up the paper. “I’ll just keep this for—”

  “Could you make me a copy on that fine machine right over there?”

  While the copier warmed up, Courtney stared out the window at the Homer, humming to herself. A minute after she walked out with her duplicate in hand, he spotted her crossing the street below, phone to her ear.

  Wait—wasn’t she dating Chase? Was she just a front man for the bank?

  Didn’t matter—now he could pay everyone off. And start a new project. . . maybe he’d buy up that putt-putt business downtown that was about to go under. Golf was the future—at any size.

  James

  HE SET DOWN his phone on the Bean’s table. No point in reading email when his mind refused to focus on anything but the Homer. Until they replaced that port engine, he was going to meet every arrival. He’d even asked Courtney to text him when she reached Newport. She should be coming around the end of Bird Island in the next five minutes or so. . . but there was no sign yet of those white canisters, that slate blue superstructure. That perky smile—and, of course, those unexpectedly great negotiating skills.

  “Need your own widow’s walk?” Mack asked, winking, on his way inside for refills.

  A week ago, it would’ve bothered James to be caught watching for the ferry. Now he had ownership as an excuse.

  Mack came back with a full mug, but no coffee pot. “Patty’s brewing a fresh round—she’ll be out with it any minute,” he promised, before reclaiming his seat at the far end of the big table. At his feet, Chester the dog dropped his head back to his paws.

  The day after Labor Day, two new faces had joined the morning gang. James couldn’t decide which was more surprising: Barb (sitting a little too close to Gavin); or Mémé, perched next to the Irreverend. Doc Emerald had taken to dropping his bag onto Mayor Frank’s empty seat when he arrived, though he hadn’t yet had the nerve to actually sit there. This morning he was complaining about the forecast: record heat, he’d heard.

  “Ashore maybe,” Mack responded. “Ocean temps are already dropping—no way the air’ll climb above seventy-five out here, once the sea breeze starts up.”

  James could hear Mayor Frank’s usual response: that weather predictions were right about as often as he won the lottery. Poor old geezer—his daughter had moved him into a retirement home.

  Patty pressed open the door, carrying a fresh pot of coffee. Little Declan James would be asleep in his carrier inside; he’d wake up just before the ferry arrived, already attuned to the ebb and flow of island life.

  Patty topped up James’s mug. “You should move over to the big table today,” she told him. “Part of the mayor’s job, to mingle.”

  “Mayor?” James shook his head. “Not me.”

  “We’ve all decided.” She leaned down to whisper, “Don’t want Doc Emerald running things, do you?” In a normal voice she added, “That mop of yours is growing as fast as baby DJ! I could fit in a trim this afternoon, during his nap, when you come back to wait for Courtney.”

  “I’m just making sure the Homer gets in on time,” he said firmly.

  “Yeah, right.” Patty headed across the deck.

  James wrapped his hands around the warm mug. Soon it would be too cold to sit out here, and they’d all move inside. Maybe he’d join the big table then—he spent so much time alone now, he didn’t crave solitude like he used to.

  Patty whispered into the Irreverend’s ear.

  “I can’t do that!”

  Patty whispered something else. The Irreverend turned in his seat.

  “Join us, James?” His voice cracked. “We’d, uh—love to hear more about the new ferry plans.”

  Mémé rai
sed one of her arthritic hands to beckon him over.

  “Nothing to tell,” James replied. “We aren’t changing any—”

  “Get your ass over here, James!” Mack said, adding, “’Scuse my language, Mrs. Borba.”

  “Tell ‘em about the new discounts for Inn guests you’re working on with Parker Dane,” the Irreverend said.

  “Or about getting the Homer painted this winter,” Patty added.

  “And the land trust meeting aboard the ferry!” Mémé chimed in.

  “All still in the planning stages,” James said, glaring at each one of them. “I can’t—”

  “Stop being such a d—such an introvert!” Mack set down his mug so hard his coffee sloshed and dripped through the table top, waking Chester. “Give us some news, like a proper mayor.”

  “I’m not the mayor!”

  Barb stood up, as if she’d had enough—but instead of heading for the steps, she pulled out Mayor Frank’s chair and handed Doc Emerald his bag.

  “There’s an empty seat at our table,” she told James. “You’re the only one who can fill it.”

  Everyone was staring at him. Patty stood beside Mack, coffee pot empty, waiting.

  Ah, what the hell, it would be more entertaining than staring at the breakwater or checking his email.

  When he scraped back his chair, the whole table cheered. On her way back inside, Patty patted his shoulder.

  But when James sat down in Mayor Frank’s chair, it felt all wrong. He stood up again.

  “I’ll be the next mayor on one condition.”

  “That a threat or a promise?” Doc Emerald asked, pulling at his ear lobe.

  “Rotate this table ninety degrees. I need to watch for—watch the harbor.”

  “Easy!” Mack pushed back his chair and grabbed the opposite table edge. “Ready? Come on Chester—you’re gonna have to move too.”

  The metal table was surprisingly light. Mémé pulled her chair up to the corner next to James and pressed her hand into his shoulder. Everyone else sat down too, and Chester resettled himself at Mack’s feet. Coffee was sipped, and the morning sounds asserted themselves; waves lapping against the dock, an outboard revving up, gulls cawing.